


crush

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Era, Established Relationship, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 10:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14746848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: For once, Dean surprises Sam.





	crush

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo; filling the 'sex toys' square.

Dean’s jittery, waiting. He’s got his black plastic anonymized bag dangling from one finger, flipping his keys in and out of his palm, watching the steady surge of midday traffic going past the strip mall. Hot out here, Las Cruces never a destination spot in early June, and there’s sweat already beading at his temples and in the middle of his back, just from standing out on the sidewalk for ten minutes. His pocket beeps, finally, and he trades his keys for his phone and reads:  _They actually have some jeans in my size, going to try them on. Ten more minutes._

He groans, aloud, startling the elderly lady passing by him with her little purse. “Sorry, ma’am,” he says, smiling, but he knows it’s strained and she clutches her purse closer and keeps scooting down the sidewalk, heading into the pet store. Okay—no, it’s hot as balls and that jittery feeling has sunk down into his belly and he’s not waiting any longer. Sam better appreciate some company.

The thrift store smells like all thrift stores do, bad soft-rock radio playing softly over the speakers. Not too busy at noon on a Thursday, a bored employee folding shirts at the table by the registers. He doesn’t even look up when Dean comes in. Only other customer he can see is another old lady, sorting through dresses on a rack on the far side of the store. No plaid-covered giants in sight—but there, way at the back, the changing rooms. He heads down the aisles, past the purple tags (20% Off!), through the narrow archway, and finds a little hallway of curtained rooms, all of them with the cheap velveteen pulled back, but one.

When he shoves the curtain open Sam jumps, eyes going gratifyingly huge with shock in the little mirror. “What the hell,” he says, as soon as he recognizes Dean, and smacks him hard in the chest.

Dean grins, annoyingly wide, and Sam just rolls his eyes and returns to doing up his jeans. He’s just in a t-shirt, his socks, the potential new jeans with the tag dangling off the back pocket. “I was hoping to catch you with your pants down,” Dean says, eyes dropping to check the fit. Not bad at all.

“You’re always hoping to catch me with my pants down, that’s not news,” Sam says, dry, and he twists around to see as best he can in the narrow, spotty mirror. The ghoul hunt a few days ago pretty thoroughly ruined Sam’s last pair of decent jeans and the bloodstains on his backups still haven’t really come out, so here they are. These are long enough at least, which is always the problem. Sam does a few knee lifts, twists at the waist, and shrugs, and unzips again. “I’ve got another pair to try,” he says, and turns his head over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows. “Uh, you wanna step out? I don’t want to flash my ass to the whole store.”

“No one wants that,” Dean says, and then steps inside instead, drawing the curtain closed behind him with a rattle of metal rings.

Sam rolls his eyes again, but shimmies the pants off anyway and hangs them on the little hook. Dean leans back against the other wall of the tiny room, watching Sam move. The plastic of his bag crinkles as he shifts and Sam glances at him, unfolding the next pair of jeans. “What’d you get,” he says, barely interested, stepping into the new pair.

These ones are definitely too tight. He has to tug to get them on, even over his skinny-ass legs, and they hug his ass something ridiculous. Dean licks his lips. “Just—something,” he says, distantly, while Sam does up the button-fly on the new pair. “You think there’s a sasquatch in Las Cruces who goes clubbing? Those things are ridiculous.”

Sam snorts, putting his hands on his hips. “I guess if I wanted to really impress the monsters,” he says, with the smallest smile, and—god, yeah. These jeans aren’t doing anything to hide… anything, tight on his ass and his dick obvious, curved left, his balls swelling out. He shakes his head, tugging the top button open again, and he’s saying, “Well, one pair’s not bad, anyway, maybe we can check somewhere else on the way home,” and Dean drops the bag and catches him by the beltloop and tugs, and Sam lurches toward him with a startled noise that Dean muffles with his mouth, leaning up and getting a hand into Sam’s hair, his mouth opening right away. For a few seconds Sam kisses back, a hand on the wall to brace and the other flat on Dean’s chest, and with that he pushes away, finally, looking down into Dean’s eyes. “What’s gotten into you?” he says, smiling a little but frowning a little, too.

His mouth’s wet from Dean’s, his hair falling into his eyes. “I got something,” Dean says, quiet and close between them. Sam looks down at the bag on the floor and then back up to Dean’s face, quizzical, and Dean tugs Sam in closer, gets all that warm denim right up against him where he’s already more than halfway to hard and watches Sam’s eyes flicker, and breathes out hard when Sam automatically flexes against him. Yeah, there’s no way Dean’s waiting until they get back to the bunker, his skin’s about to come off. He tilts his chin up, asking, and Sam kisses him just like that, opening up his mouth, tracing Dean’s jaw with his thumb all soft, and Dean shivers, but this isn’t all he wants.

He pushes Sam back, this time, walking him the two shuffling steps they can manage inside the little changing room to the other wall, gets Sam’s back against it. He grabs the bag off the floor and presses it against Sam’s chest so that Sam has to take it or drop it.

Sam opens the bag, looking down into it, and frowns. “What—” he starts, and then fishes out the box. Clear plastic, the logo trying for some reason to look classy when it’s anything but. “You bought me a fleshlight?” Sam says, looking up.

He looks like he can’t decide whether it’s a joke. Dean nods, stepping in close again, their thighs brushing, his knee between Sam’s. “I just—” he says, and bites his lips closed, shaking his head. Sam’s eyes sharpen, looking at him more closely, but—Dean doesn’t know how to explain, how badly he wants to see this.

Sam looks at him, and then down at the box again. It’s a red sheath, shiny metallic plastic, and the sleeve inside is peachy pale, barely articulated pussy lips and a soft wide opening. He had to ask the sales girl at the adult store at the far end of the strip mall what the different sizes meant, and she gave him a slightly mocking look when he asked for whatever the biggest sleeve was, obviously thinking he was trying to impress her. He just hopes the damn thing actually fits.

“Are you going on a trip, or something?” Sam asks, finally. He’s still looking at the box. “Don’t want me to miss you when you’re gone?”

“You know nothing can replace this ass,” Dean says, automatically, and Sam huffs. He swallows, watching Sam’s down-turned face, and then goes down to his knees on the funky carpet, eyes turned up so he can see Sam’s widen. “Not going anywhere, Sam,” he says, hands on Sam’s thighs. God, he’s warm. “I just want…”

“Dean,” Sam says, quiet, and then glances at the curtain.

“No one’s here,” Dean says. He doesn’t want to beg, doesn’t usually have to. Doesn’t really ask for much, when Sam’s so willing to give. “We can be quiet, right? You remember that time, that pool hall in Charleston?”

Almost a decade ago, both of them tipsy, stupid, young. Sam had dragged him into the handicapped stall with a tournament on the other side of the door, dozens of drunk hicks shouting distance away while Sam jerked them both off and Dean kissed him until his lips were numb to stay silent. “Thought we were going to get the shit kicked out of us,” Sam says now, finally, and he slides a thumb around the back of Dean’s ear so that Dean shudders.

Dean holds Sam’s eyes and pops the second button on his fly, and then the third. Sam licks his lips, glances at the curtain again, and then reaches out and loops the little fastener around the hook, velcros it closed, like that’ll do anything if someone catches them—but fuck it, whatever makes this happen, Dean doesn’t care, and he tears the last three buttons open and finds Sam’s dick sitting huge and chubbed up, thick in his boxer-briefs, waiting. He buries his nose right in there, breathes in the warm Sam-smell of it, breathes out hot and damp and makes Sam shiver, his thighs clenching under Dean’s hands. Dean glances up, says, “Hold on,” quiet, and then tugs the whole thing down, Sam helping to shove the too-tight jeans under the curve of his ass, and then Dean leans in and gets Sam’s dick between his lips and goes all the way down to the base, wetting him root-to-tip.

“Oh, christ,” Sam whispers, up above, “I can’t believe you,” and Dean pops off the end and smiles up, catching Sam’s eyes all dark and wide and his mouth open, his chest already heaving, and then goes right back down again, working his tongue on the underside, mouth flooding with saliva at the taste of flesh and salt and long-familiar bitterness. He’s so big, and Dean’s used to it but it’s a stretch, every time, and he closes his eyes and suckles slow, getting Sammy all the way to hard, his lips straining, the head bumping his palate and making his eyes water. He strokes wide circles on Sam’s hips, loving that dent of muscle where his ass clenches, and then—ah, there it is, Sam flexes and rocks in, his hand careful on the back of Dean’s head, his breath coming unsteady up above. Dean takes it, trapped there for just a minute. The push over his tongue, the slick bump into his throat, Sam’s hand so big and not demanding—not yet. He breathes out shaky through his nose, presses his tongue up hard, and Sam jerks a little, shoves a little harder, and Dean does choke then, pulls off to cough, and Sam whispers,  _sorry, shit, sorry_ , but Dean shakes his head, nods at the box Sam’s still clutching against his chest.

Sam blinks at him, cheeks patchy-red, and then fumbles the box open, almost tearing the thin clear plastic when he struggles with the top. He pushes a thumb into the hole, between the lips, and shakes his head, laughing softly. “This is crazy,” he says, and Dean nods and grins and then finds the bag, finds the little tube of lube which was the only thing he’d really gone into the stupid store to get, and he takes the sheath from Sam and dribbles in a long clear line of wet. Sam pushes his fingers inside, smears it around, and flushes darker, red rising up his throat.

“Come on,” Dean says, kneeling up higher, “come on, Sammy,” and Sam licks his lips and Dean holds his dick steady, all big and flushed and rigid, and Sam shifts his grip on the fleshlight and positions himself at the opening and then—oh, yeah, pushes it down, steady and slow, twisting it just a little. “Fuck,” Dean breathes out, watching up close. The fake pussy lips part around the thickness of him, shining, his dick gleaming from Dean’s spit. “I thought it wouldn’t fit.”

“Jesus,” Sam says, voice tight, and his hips flex, pushing in further. He drags the fleshlight off again, the lips sinking closed again once he’s out, and then pushes it on harder, sinking all the way to the base, the softness of it just swallowing him up. Dean shifts a little to one side, his knees bracketing Sam’s leg, and kisses the arch of Sam’s hip, watching as close as he can get. Sam shifts his grip, fucks forward into the thing again, and his head thuds back against the wall, arm flexing as he uses it like he’s jerking off, sliding it down again and again, the slick inside squelching softly with each push.

He’s still being careful, kind of, moving slow, sliding in and out with a rhythm that’s so familiar. It’s hot, it’s ungodly hot, and Dean slides a hand down to his own dick trapped rigid in his own jeans, squeezes himself because he can’t not, not when Sam’s turned on and fucking and right up against him. He licks his lips, staring at the thick root of Sam’s dick as it appears and disappears, and he says, “Sammy,” his voice all hoarse, and then, quietly, “Sam, you can’t hurt it.”

Sam’s free hand drops to Dean’s shoulder, squeezing so hard Dean’s mouth drops open. “Fuck, Dean,” Sam whispers, and then—oh, god,  _there_ , he crams the thing down, his hips grinding up against it like he can get deeper, like there’s some new place he could somehow go, and then he—he starts fucking it,  _really_  fucking it, hips jerking forward and his hand slamming down to meet them, fast and hard, the changing room full of the  _schlick_  sound of his dick mercilessly filling up the soft wet.

“Oh, shit,” Dean says, “yeah, that’s it, come on—” and Sam groans, out loud, not staying quiet at  _all,_  and Dean staggers up to his feet and lets his dick push against Sam’s flexing hip and he says  _shh_  up close, leaning up into Sam’s ear, whispers, “You don’t want someone to come in, gotta stay quiet, Sammy,” and Sam looks at him with his pupils spread huge and his face red and his voice so low it’s almost a growl and he says, “Keep me quiet, then,” and Dean’s gut clenches because—yeah, this, this is what he wanted, Sam letting go of all that restraint and getting hard and rough and almost-nasty, and Dean offers up his mouth and gets—mauled, pretty much, Sam grabbing his neck and his thumb up against the base of Dean’s throat, tight and threatening as he licks in, taking over Dean’s mouth like a conquering army. Dean groans into it and Sam bites his bottom lip, hips still flexing down below, pushing in and in to the damn fleshlight, and Dean mumbles  _wait, hang on_ , and fumbles his hand around it, locks it in tight against his hip and makes himself rigid, still, and then says  _go_  into Sam’s mouth, and Sam just  _slams_  forward, hand closing over the top of Dean’s to make sure he stays in place and his other hand still locked onto Dean’s neck, keeping him close while Sam kisses him, and kisses him, and then at last while Sam just leans his forehead into Dean’s and breathes sharp and harsh against his bitten-up lips. Dean just holds on, breathes Sam’s air and slides his free hand down to feel the flex of Sam’s hips, his lower belly, his clenching ass as he shoves in and in and in and god, it’s so—and then Sam’s breath hitches, his hand clenching around the back of Dean’s neck, dragging him in close so that Dean’s almost crushed into Sam’s chest, and he looks down to where they’re both holding the fleshlight and Sam’s dick is swelling, veins standing out, and then Sam’s hand around his clenches so hard that Dean hears something crack and Sam turns and gets his teeth in Dean’s shoulder and bites into the flannel and comes like that, freezing for a second before his hips jerk into it, again and again, chest heaving, before he unclenches and sags back into the wall, head thumping hard against it, clearly spent.

Dean breathes in, shakily. Sam’s sweating, salty-sharp, and he kisses the long tendon on the side of his throat, where Sam’s pulse thumps hard just under the skin. A long thumb drags along his hairline, gentle now, and he looks down the length of Sam’s body to the fleshlight, where he’s still holding it in place because Sam’s hand has fallen away, loose and dangling against the wall. He twists it a little, drags it off a few inches and then slides it back down, and—oh, yeah, it’s an even slicker ride, now, Sam’s mess all up inside. Sam shudders, but so does Dean, and he drags it finally all the way off to see—fuck, Sam’s dick all huge and flushed and wet and  _dripping_ , white smeared over the perfect ridge of the head and all over the open mouth of the pocket pussy. Dean stares, knows his mouth is hanging open but doesn’t care, and then he gives into the impulse—he slides back down to his knees, gets his lips around Sam’s spent dick and licks gentle at the head, gets that taste in his mouth.

“Dean,” Sam says, distant, and Dean closes his eyes and goes down to the base, takes the bitterness and the weird powdery flavor and the tacky oddness of lube. A big hand lands on his jaw and he lets himself get pushed back, off, and he licks his lips, savoring it, before he opens his eyes and looks up.

Sam’s face is still flushed, though he’s lost that wild-eyed look. Too bad. “You’re crazy, you know that?” he says, his thumb gentle on Dean’s cheek. He slides it over to the wet line of Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean kisses it.

“I think I just have a healthy sense of adventure,” Dean says. He’s so turned on he’s almost light-headed, his dick actually aching now, his balls tight. He takes a deep breath and manages a grin, lifting up the fleshlight. “Anyway, I’m not the one who broke a sex toy the very first time I used it.”

“What?” Sam says, and takes it from him, turning it over. There’s a crack, actually broken along the seam where they joined the sheath’s two halves, and Dean stands up on wobbly legs to see that Sam’s actually blushing, again, embarrassed. “It’s probably a cheap one, anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Dean says, and Sam turns it over and it drips—right onto the leg of the too-tight jeans where they’re still clinging to Sam’s thighs, a blop of come splatting down. “Whoops,” Dean says, while Sam curses and rights the thing, “I guess those are coming home with us, huh.”

“I hate you,” Sam says, with zero venom.

Dean takes the fleshlight off his hands, drops it back into the clear plastic box while Sam shimmies the jeans off, tugs his briefs back up to hide his dick. “I’m your very favorite brother,” Dean corrects, grinning.

Sam glances up at him, the non-ridiculous jeans in hand, and pauses. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little softer than it should be, and Dean looks down, busies himself with shoving the lube and the fleshlight back into the opaque black bag. Sam steps in close, slides his hand around Dean’s hip and thumbs the soft skin just above his waistband. “How will I ever return the favor?”

Dean has to close his eyes, his dick throbbing. “You touch me and I’ll probably cream myself,” he says, honest, and Sam laughs softly, pinching his side just a little before he backs off.

“Maybe we can get a motel before we head back up to Kansas,” Sam says, and Dean opens his eyes to find him sliding the new jeans on, pulling off the tag so the cashier can ring them up.

Dean swallows, trying not to imagine anything so he can walk out of the store with any kind of dignity. It’s not looking good. “Yeah,” he says, “that sounds good.”

“Cool,” Sam says, shoving on his half-boots. He picks up the stained jeans, makes a face, and pulls the tag off of those too, bundling them in such a way that the mark won’t show. He glances at the bag Dean’s holding, and then up. “Maybe we can stop in before we go, make a return. See what else they have, huh?”

He undoes the velcro strap and slides the curtain open, glancing both ways before he strides off down the hall. Dean leans back against the wall of the changing room, taking a deep breath. There was a lot of weird stuff in that store. “Yeah,” he says, to himself, and adjusts his jeans, and follows.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/174218957299/crush)


End file.
